Clara Bowden-Jones Character Analysis

Yet a residue, left over from the evaporation of Clara’s faith, remained. She still wished for a savior. She still wished for a man to whisk her away, to choose her above others so that she might walk in white with Him: for [she] was worthy. Revelation 3:4.

“Talk, talk, talk and it will be better. Be honest, slice open your heart and spread the red stuff around. But the past is made of more than words, dearie. We married old men, you see? These bumps”—Alsana pats them both—“they will always have daddy-long-legs for fathers. One leg in the present, one in the past. No talking will change this. Their roots will always be tangled. And roots get dug up. Just look in my garden—birds at the coriander every bloody day. . .”

It’s all very well, this instruction of Alsana’s to look at the thing close up; to look at it dead straight between the eyes; an unflinching and honest stare, a meticulous inspection that would go beyond the heart of the matter to its marrow, beyond the marrow to the root—but the question is how far back do you want? How far will do?

O what a tangled web we weave. Millat was right: these parents were damaged people, missing hands, missing teeth. These parents were full of information you wanted to know but were too scared to hear. But [Irie] didn’t want it anymore, she was tired of it. She was sick of never getting the whole truth. She was returning to sender.

Yet a residue, left over from the evaporation of Clara’s faith, remained. She still wished for a savior. She still wished for a man to whisk her away, to choose her above others so that she might walk in white with Him: for [she] was worthy. Revelation 3:4.

“Talk, talk, talk and it will be better. Be honest, slice open your heart and spread the red stuff around. But the past is made of more than words, dearie. We married old men, you see? These bumps”—Alsana pats them both—“they will always have daddy-long-legs for fathers. One leg in the present, one in the past. No talking will change this. Their roots will always be tangled. And roots get dug up. Just look in my garden—birds at the coriander every bloody day. . .”

It’s all very well, this instruction of Alsana’s to look at the thing close up; to look at it dead straight between the eyes; an unflinching and honest stare, a meticulous inspection that would go beyond the heart of the matter to its marrow, beyond the marrow to the root—but the question is how far back do you want? How far will do?

O what a tangled web we weave. Millat was right: these parents were damaged people, missing hands, missing teeth. These parents were full of information you wanted to know but were too scared to hear. But [Irie] didn’t want it anymore, she was tired of it. She was sick of never getting the whole truth. She was returning to sender.